Backwater Experts
by Fireglass
Summary: The feeling of the bitter breeze biting into his flesh was a familiar one now, as much a part of him as the sword he always kept within arm’s reach. Unshakeable; unbreakable. Like he used to be. /Cloud-centric\ /Post-AC\ /Hints of CloudTifa and ZackAerith


Backwater Experts

Backwater Experts

The night was cool, overcast, with a harsh wind bearing the faintest scent of rain upon its breath. The atmosphere had born the sharp chill of the snow-riddled months for several weeks now…it was always cold, and he with it, though he hardly noticed anymore. The feeling of the bitter breeze biting into his flesh was a familiar one now…not welcomed, but expected, as much a part of him as his hair, or his eyes, or the sword he always kept within arm's reach. Unshakeable; unbreakable.

Like he used to be.

He knew he shouldn't be at the tavern; he'd promised Tifa he would stay and watch Denzel and Marlene while she was away, tending to a misguided mishap relating to their delivery service near the northern reaches of Midgar. But when an unexpected visit from Barret left him with little in the way of pressing responsibility for the two children, he had sought escape immediately.

He couldn't stay there; not in that city, in that house…not with them. Not when every breath he breathed brought to him the distant scent of _her_…not when the weight of his sword upon his shoulders reminded him of _that man_.

Not now. Not tonight.

And so he entered the tavern—reeking of drunkenness and slovenly up-keeping—and gazed about with narrowed, piercing eyes, making a full visual sweep of the place in a single glance. It was the smallest tavern in the Slums, and the most disreputable…a title he was insensibly thankful for that eve. He wouldn't fain being found here by Tifa, Barret, or any of the others…those fortunate few who had moved on, who had _healed_.

He was not quite so privileged as to be free from the past.

The cold wind whirled against his shoulder-blades as the ancient oak door of the tavern swung closed behind him, creaking upon its hinges. The welcomed heat of the fire lit in the western corner of the room seared across his face at once, lingering most prominently upon his forehead. Unconsciously, he lifted his right hand to trail his fingertips across the area of his flesh that was always warmer than the rest of his body by a token amount…the place where _her _hand had touched him, had healed him.

He shuddered compulsively, allowing his arm to fall lax at his side as he moved with restrained haste to the far counter of the tavern, cast into a depthless shadow where the soft glow of the fire did not reach. He lowered himself heavily to one of the tremulous stools, rested his elbows upon the creased, dented countertop, and pressed his lips to his folded hands. Sealing the chill fire of his brilliant cerulean eyes to the world, he concentrated solely upon the even pace of his breathing, and tried desperately not to see _her _face behind his lids.

It all seemed to be catching up with him today. The memories of the battle against Kadaj—no, _Sephiroth_—and the pain of the wounds that Loz and Yazoo had inflicted upon him a heartbeat before their confrontation...the agony of the fire that had consumed him, had _killed _him…and then the less harsh—but equally painful—recollections…the wonderful sensation of floating, the cool caress of her hand upon his brow, the sweet release in seeing her face a final time before she was lost to him forever, with parting words that unbound him from the pain of failing her…

" Hello, there." A coarse, inquisitive voice spoke near his head, and he bolted upright, away from the counter, away from his memories, his hand moving instinctively toward the sword sheathed at his back as his eyes swept once, frantically, about the room, searching out the one who had spoken.

A wave of hesitant relaxation washed through him as he distinguished the figure who had addressed him; the barmaid's eyebrows lifted slightly as his hand descended from the grip of his sword, coming to rest safely upon the countertop.

" Sorry." He muttered.

" Don't mention it, love." She dismissed quickly; she was a rotund woman, plump in the cheeks, with narrow, glinting eyes and lips a bit too full for her small chin. Her dark hair was pinned back at the nape of her neck, and her bulky left hand swirled a bit of frothy soap about in a crystal mug she gripped tightly in her large fingers. " Fancy a drink?"

" Sure." He agreed, quietly. " Anything's fine."

" Alright, then." She winked cheerfully at him and departed; he gazed after her for a moment, contemplating her flirtatious behavior, and then braced his elbows back upon the countertop and lowered his face into his hands.

In truth, the memories of _her _were not quite so pressing this night; it was not that particular set of demons that had driven him to hiding in this derelict tavern, in the heart of the Slums. No, this eve it was the guilt that had herded him form the sanctuary of his home, to cower amongst the street dogs and petty thieves, who even now swayed drunkenly about the tavern at his back.

It was the pain of losing a comrade, a brother in arms, that had driven him to this place of relative solitude; to the edge of poverty and hopelessness he had fled, just to be alone—because in truth, he felt more connected to both of them here in the Slums.

Aerith…the woman whose wellbeing had been entrusted to him, who had perished for his shortcomings.

Zack…the man to whom he owed his life, who had died to defend him, whose legacy he had born for so long as his own.

He scarcely noticed the barmaid's return, though the loud clatter of the mug in her hands sliding across the lacerated countertop toward his frozen form did rouse him from his brutal thoughts; raising his head from his hands, he murmured a barely audible word of thanks to the expectant barmaid, and lifted the mug, inhaling a long draft of the concoction within, knowing little of its origin.

The powerful ale surged down his throat, burning as it went, but he hardly minded. It was the lesser of the two pains that soared high within him, and a divergent he gladly welcomed.

The barmaid spoke something to him as if from afar, but he dutifully ignored her; lowering the mug to the countertop, he closed his eyes and allowed the dialogue and crackle of the fire and the lashing of the wind on the tavern roof all around to fade into a single colorless stream of sound; steady, but indistinguishable.

It was easier to concentrate that way, with the world seeming to reach him from afar. Exhaling lowly, he concentrated.

_Aerith…Zack…I need you._ He spoke the words only within his mind. _Have you left me forever?_

He could still recall the pure white fury and dull sorrow mingled that had rocked through him earlier that day when he had returned to the outlands beyond Midgar to find the Buster Sword lying in the dust, pushed aside at an earlier time by his attackers as though it were some idle trophy. He had reset the weapon to its original position, upright, blade piercing the soil, and yet it had felt somehow different to him; as though the mighty sword—and the legacy it carried—had been tarnished.

But even that event…heartrendingly painful as it was…had not been the most interesting of the things he had seen that day. For when he had at last glanced away from the sword—with a great exertion of effort—he had seen a dark-pelted wolf standing several feet away. From a distance he had not been able to distinguish its color, only the brightness of its eyes and the stance of its body that lacked hostility.

Nevertheless, he had been wary, on guard, and while man and creature had regarded one another, a peculiar sensation had come over him; he could still recall it in the heat of the tavern, as the last image of the day's event vanished from his mind with the sharp pivot and departure of the wolf.

He lifted his head, and sighed.

The ache of the ale's residue had faded from his throat, and he instantly inhaled another long drought, choking slightly as it scalded its way down his throat. He coughed several times and set the mug aside, swallowing to sate the fire that smoldered within him. As he did so, a carefree voice spoke, carrying over the clamor of the cavern.

" So, you wanna be a SOLDIER, huh?"

For a moment, he could scarcely breathe; every muscle locked into place, his body becoming rigid, as a girl's soprano laughter echoed the man's words—so familiar. And then he could move, suddenly, and he spun about in his chair, twisting this way and that in an effort to spot them; the man with the dark hair, the girl with the soft dirt-hued locks, likely standing together, wherever they were.

But he could see no such individuals; the man who had spoken—and repeated his question now—was short, with reddish hair and piercing green eyes. He spoke to a tall elder with a thick beard and dark eyes, from whose arm a tavern whore was hanging, giggling riotously at their dialogue.

Disgusted, as well as disappointed, he turned away.

" Can I get you another, love?" The barmaid met him as he twisted around in his chair; she leaned close to him, smelling strongly of incense, gripping his empty mug in her plump hands.

" Um…sure." He agreed, at last.

Another smile, another wink; she turned away.

Heavily, he sighed.

His memories of them seemed especially potent tonight; he could easily remember the time he and Aerith had lain beneath the stars, on watch during their journey together, talking of trivial things, and he had reached over, tugging lightly at the pink ribbon binding her braided hair.

" Why do you always wear this stupid thing?" He had inquired, teasingly. " It's threadbare and dirty. You should get a new one."

He hadn't expected the question to upset her as it had; she had shifted away from him, sitting upright, turning her head aside. Concern had swept through him as he caught a brief glimpse of the sorrow in her eyes. He had levered himself into a more erect bearing beside her, and had rested his hand upon her shoulder.

" Aerith…?"

" I…I can't." She had replied to his suggestion, reaching up to touch the ribbon with gentle, reverent fingers. " It was a…gift from a friend." She had smiled gently at some remembered joke. " Eighty-nine letters and a flower wagon…and this ribbon…they're all I have left of him."

He had known, then, had discerned, and had said no more.

He roused from the memory with a sad shake of his head, chastising himself mentally for his insensitive ways. He didn't bother to glance up as the barmaid returned, his mind becoming far too immersed in his next recollection.

He could clearly remember the pain, the fear in the chase as he sought after her in the Forgotten City. The relief at finding her…and then the horror that had stabbed through him as Sephiroth's blade rent through her body, sending the sick desecration of her lifeblood streaming onto the holy grounds. A desecration—because he always thought that angels shouldn't bleed.

He resurfaced from the memory with a sharp clench of his teeth around a snarl of fury. Snatching the mug of ale from the countertop, he downed its contents in a swift drought, and slammed the container back down, his eyes closed, his breathing harsh as he struggled with his emotions.

_Sephiroth is dead_. He reminded himself sternly, and this reminder caused the anger to ebb, if only slightly.

When he had at last regained control of his emotions, he sighed lowly, and settled back in the stool, gazing upward toward the high rafters of the small tavern.

A short while passed; the fire banked low upon its embers, and a bitter coolness swept through the room. The barmaid groaned lowly and spoke on a low aside to a man standing beside her. He dashed away to gather more firewood, and as the fire continued to dim, the coldness rose higher, sweeping over the man on the stool, wrapping him in a mantle of memories…

It had been a cold winter's day; even with his protective clothing, he could discern as much. The snowflakes had been falling in regular intervals, and his feet ached with blisters. Still, unwilling to show weakness, he had plodded on beside the head of his small regimen. A quiet man, he had thought, slightly reserved.

Until…

" Yo! Don't fall too far behind!" His companion had called back jovially to the straggling Turks that accompanied them. He had smiled to himself, his display of humor hidden by his visor and helmet, as his exact sentiments were spoken by the man beside him, directed toward the Turks who still did not increase their pace.

Then the man had spoken to him—or perhaps simply _of _him—his voice still light and friendly.

" At least someone's keeping up!"

He had thought he liked this man; sociable, unaffected by their dire conditions. Certainly someone from a rugged lifestyle, like himself.

" Well, I'm a country boy, too." He had admitted.

" From where?" Had been the interested reply.

" Nibelheim." He had admitted unwillingly.

The man had laughed, turning aside, and the brief sensation of camaraderie between them had vanished. Eager to divert the attention from himself, he had inquired in a pert tone, " How about you?"

" Me?" The man had turned, his smile still bright and friendly. " Gongaga."

And then _he _had been the one laughing, at the sheer ludicrousness of the word's sound on the man's lips.

" Hey, what's so funny about that?" It had been the man's turn to be defensive now. " You know Gongaga?"

He had managed to halt his unprofessional chuckling at that, but the mirth had still flavored his voice when he replied.

" No, but it's such a backwater name."

The man's eyes had narrowed playfully.

" Ditto Nibelheim." He had rejoined, settling the score, turning away as though he hadn't a care in the world.

" Like you've been there." Cloud had muttered.

" I haven't, but there's a reactor there, right?" The man had probed, facing him once more with those bright, open eyes, and he had grudgingly nodded " A mako reactor outside Midgar usually means…"

He had heard this one before.

" Nothing else out there." They had completed in perfect harmony, and then they had laughed, freely, and the man had stepped past him, to address the Turks.

" Good news, Tseng!" He had called out, his voice full of mischief. " Me and…"

He had hesitated, his eyes darkening with confusion, and had turned aside. And Cloud had sighed, removing his helmet, wincing as the bitterly cold wind struck his cheek like a sharp blow.

" Cloud." He had introduced himself.

The man had chuckled, and pivoted again.

" Me and Cloud here are both backwater experts!" He had flung out his arms and grinned widely. " _Oh yeah!_"

He ascended from this memory—the warmth of the fire extinguishing the recollection of the cold mountainside conversation—with a slight smile on his face, touching the edge of the ale mug and studying his reflection within.

The barmaid approached him yet again, and leaned against the counter, fixing her small eyes upon him. He could easily read the light of interest in her eyes; she was paying him far too much mind.

" Where you from, love?" She inquired, sociably.

" Around here." He replied, evasively.

" Midgar?"

" Something like that." He allowed.

" You a Turk?" She demanded, seeming intent to strike up a decent conversation with him, unaware by estimation that he was immune to her flirting.

" No."

" SOLDIER?"

" Not even close."

" What are ya, then?"

He glanced down at his reflection in the shivering ale, and his smile widened.

_What am I?_

He glanced up, meeting her gaze with a friendly smirk.

" Just a backwater expert, I guess."

-(A/N)-

Contrary to what you may or may not think…I have never played Final Fantasy 7 ;)


End file.
